Torn Asunder
by Gwedhiel
Summary: *canonical gap-filler* Why in the world did Oropher advance his army before King Gil-galad signaled him to? Elrond doesn't have the answer, though he is determined to obtain it by any means, even from the grieving new Elvenking. *full summary inside* *under general revision*


**Summary**: "Elrond stood there, hopeless, as he watched him endure the pain of all pains. He was in anguish for his friend, but this time…this time he could do nothing, for nothing could be done…." Have you ever thought that there was more as to *why* Oropher had led the charge early? Or do you settle for the common belief that he was simply a prideful idiot who defied Gil-galad's order out of spite? Here, below, is one interpretation of why Oropher advanced before he was instructed to do so. And this story's information *is* in accordance with canon. :) And Elrond receives the misfortune of having to witness just how Thranduil reacts to his father's demise.

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely nothing of Tolkien's world. The character Aearion belongs to **Tori of Lórien** and I thank her for letting me borrow such a noble character. The character Cereg is mine though. I also do not own the uploaded "book cover" for this particular story. If this is ill-suited for any purpose for anyone, I will gladly take it down, all you need to do is ask. But please inform me so before rudely going to delete my story without warning. Thank you.

**A/N:** Well, this story took a little bit of time and thought. I have to right now say this; this is absolutely no slash whatsoever. Okay, got that off my chest. :) Though we all love reviews, I am personally asking you to review because this is my first attempt at this "type" of fic, so any feedback will be greatly appreciated, whether it be compliments or concrit. Seriously, I truly want to know your honest opinion of the story^^. I'm praying that you don't become bored by this because, as you know, I can go on with words. :) And even though this is centered on one or two topics, I don't do that literal reiteration ten times over. There's a point to everything. And not to worry! Though this could be seen as a vignette, there are a host of characters (literally) and dialogue. And this was, once again, another inspired story, this time by an image used in "Riptide", a coming story by **Tori of Lórien**. So thanks once more!

But for this story, please review! :) I welcome all words, including concrit. Happy reading!

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><p><em>Dagorlad, 3434 SA<em>

There was a numbing silence in the camp of the army of Greenwood. The most that could be heard was the crackle of the meager flames of campfires, the whispering neigh of a horse, or the soft footfalls of the few Elves walking about. No one spoke; no one was encouraged to speak. No one was motivated to speak. But if there was a numbing silence in the camp, then there was a deadening silence in the royal tent. Well, almost a full silence there was. Aearion stood guard at the entrance, this time to prevent any of the Silvan Elves from entering. But none dared to even enter its vicinity.

Thranduil sat inside, on the ground, utterly defeated. His posture held no confidence, for it only showed a broken spirit. Next to him, lying on the low cot, was Oropher…and his eyes were closed. Thranduil sat there in silence, washing the blood off his father's chest with mechanical movements. It was as though the blood screamed out to him, shoving reality in his face, mocking him with it and he could not stand it. He had to get rid of it. But against his will, against every fiber in his being, the scene of what happened flashed in his mind, mocking him with its horror instead. And unlike the blood, he knew not how he could wash this vision away.

_The sounds of battle were deafening to the ears. The belligerent shouting, the dying screams, the clashing steel of all Orcs, Men, and Elves were overwhelming. The pressure of the Orcs coming down on the Silvan forces was like the rapids pulling one down to the bed of the river. One could not breathe. One could not think. All one knew was to kill to survive, and to survive only to kill again. The battlefield robbed them of all emotion save their natural born hatred for the Orcs. One just fought to survive. Nothing else mattered…until the tragedy struck._

_He fought valiantly next to his father and king. His muscles ached and adrenaline rushed through his body like no tomorrow, but, like his people, he was driven onward, keeping his father in sight at all times._

_But then he faltered. Oropher had led his people into battle like the true king he was, but the enemy knew how to identify a leader. The Úlaire could identify the leader and indeed went to eliminate both of them. The attention was on them, and he faltered._

_He remembered how he was shoved, shoved so viciously to the right with such a force that nearly sent him to the ground. He had spun on his heel to see who had shoved him aside and felt his blood run cold at the sight that greeted his eyes. _

_Everything seemed to have reduced in speed. As the prince saw his father tumble to the ground, the parade of Orcs weighing him down and falling around him, time felt to have stopped. When only mere seconds had passed by, Thranduil had stood there, immobilized, unconscious of all activity around him, as he saw the black sword be raised by that demonic hand, the thrust of the blade down. The black hilt went higher and higher and then it stopped. He felt the world freeze in place and all sounds became muted as that sword plunged down within a heartbeat, slicing through the armor as butter, and pierced his father's exposed chest._

_The prince became deaf and dead to his surroundings as he saw the surprise appear in those wise eyes, his mouth opening as he reflexively gasped for air, choking on his own blood. And after only a moment, the choking ended and he saw his father's golden head fall lifelessly to the ground as the surprise disappeared from his eyes to be replaced with nothing. His right hand, clad in a gauntlet, fell limp about the hilt of his sword, resting on the dust of the field, never to be raised again._

_His mind spun as the horror and fear magnified like a flame would with oil. He heard screaming in the distance. Yet, he knew that it was he that screamed. He knew it was his voice that was shouting the agony and torment of what he just witnessed. It was his voice that was bellowing the infinite crushing weight of anguish and denial. Only seconds had passed since his father stood beside him, but those few seconds now felt to be eternity. He could not tear his eyes away from the limp body, praying with insentience, with every fiber of his being that he would move. He felt himself being dragged away with forceful hands and he submitted to their demands as his vision of his father's body was obscured by the encroaching royal guard. He was taken back, and every step away from his liege was a further step into the world of torment and agony. He knew the reality, but he wanted to deny it unto the ending of the world._

His father was dead.

And as much as his heart and being screamed for it to be false, he knew it to be true. Even though he had been whisked away within seconds after their king fell, he knew he was gone; he had been close enough to see it – as he had seen the surprise appear in those aged eyes, he had also seen the light die from them, doomed to remain empty and lifeless forevermore. His heart, his noble and valiant heart had stopped beating, destined to never again beat in Middle-earth.

The King of Greenwood the Great had fallen.

The last of the blood finally removed, Thranduil dropped the tainted rag into the lukewarm water beside the foot of the cot. He withdrew his hands, which had a noticeable tremble to them, evidence of both his physical and emotional exhaustion. He stared down at them, an overwhelming sense of isolation blanketing him as he looked down at the dust covered by the blood of his father's body. Thranduil shook his head in absent denial, a searing pain compressing his chest, making it difficult to breathe. It should be his blood covering his hands, he thought despairingly, not his father's…not his beloved king's…not blood that had gone cold.

He looked back into his father's expressionless face and felt tears swell up quickly; he knew that those eyes would never again open. Never again would he be able to see the heartwarming love that Oropher always reserved just for his son. Never again would he be able to see the wisdom and pride always seen in those insightful eyes. Thranduil took a deep shuddering breath and, despite how he tried his mightiest to prevent it from happening, the tears fell down, leaving tracks through his dusk encrusted cheeks; no matter how many millennia he had lived, somewhere deep down in the Elf there always resided the little Elf-child whose world was embellished by the persona of his father. Despite his meager desire to remain strong, the dam finally broke and Thranduil collapsed, falling across his father's chest, grasping onto him with a death grip as he released his grief into the corpse of his king.

His ada was gone.

And there was no comfort that could be given to him. As quickly as a candle had been snuffed out, darkness had fallen upon his heart and a great emptiness had come into his world. It was a darkness that no shadow of the deepest places could match. That one part, the part of promised infinite security and love, of endless guidance and wisdom, of an eternity of friendship and companionship, of a lifetime of fatherly embraces…that one part was now gone, only to be replaced by a residence of an endless wound of searing pain. And it was a pain that he knew would never leave him, for it was now the only remaining physical embodiment that was his father.

There was no comfort to be found in the stars, for that spirit-lifting consolation that all Elves received from the starlight was gone. The day became dark as the dark became an endless walk of sorrow. The tears fell from Thranduil's eyes, soaking the royal raiment clothing his father. He felt like an child concerning the heaviness with that he wept. A part of him desired to remain strong. A part of his mind, the logical part, knew that his people needed a strong leader…a strong king…to hold them together, to not let all the grief overcome their strength. Yet a part of him did not even care anymore. He simply felt lost without that familiar security and the cloak of comfort his father had always provided. But Thranduil was in despair.

He could not do it. He just could not. How could he ever find his way home again? How could he ever find his coming place in this fallen world without that guidance that had ever been by his side? It was gone, stolen away as quickly as one's breath could be. In times of war, particularly this one, all had that unconscious preparation that this might be the end, that this would be the day that their fëa was to be claimed by the Doomsman. But that preparation had been solely for them. What could ever prepare a person for the loss of a loved one? But there was no preparation. And now, after seeing the light of his father fade into the shadowy grey of death before his very eyes, he had never felt so alone. He knew that he could call his name forever more, begging for him to return to him, and he knew he would never get a response. His father was gone.

He remembered when they had first set out from Lindon to find the lost kin in the far East, he, his father, and a few other Sindar. Before setting out, his father had given him the option, more so realization that he did not have to come along. Fully an adult, Thranduil had had the right to make his own choice to stay. But Thranduil had immediately dismissed that thought as ludicrous. Wherever his father went he would follow, and such had been the words he had spoken. He remembered the delight, not to mention relief that alit Oropher's countenance. Nothing could ever make him happier than to have his son by his side, he had said. And that day he had somewhat subconsciously promised himself that he would follow his father wherever he went, as his father in turn said to him. That nothing would separate them.

Though the childish notion had passed from his mind millennia ago, Thranduil could help not but recall those words that his father had said. He gripped at the chest of the body he lay on, the tears coming even harder as the truth kept bombarding his mind; his father had left him and he would not be coming back. Never again would he be able to feel that comfort and security that came from his embrace. Never again would he feel that potency and surety that the wisdom of his father had always provided.

Damn it all, he thought angrily, why did this have to happen? His father did not deserve to die. The Silvan Elves, who had given their unconditional trust to him and his father, did not deserve to lose their king. Why, in the name of the Valar, did it have to happen? Why, in the name of Eru himself, could it not have been him?

Thranduil released a shuddering breath as he opened his eyes. The interior of the tent was still fully dark, but his Elven eyes saw the graceful face, now pale in color and unmoving. He reached up a trembling hand and slowly caressed his cheek with his thumb. He felt the tears fall even harder, knowing that his father could not even feel his caress anymore. Of all the nigh on four millennia he had lived, his father had ever been there by his side. Ever present, ever offering his wisdom and council, turning a reckless child into a noble ellon, and then a noble ellon into an honorable prince. He had ever been there. He had never left his side as he had promised, despite the childishness of the event in which he had made that promise. He had ever given his love to his son, unconditionally and constantly. He taught him how to strengthen his weakness. And now he was gone. He was dead.

Oh, but if he could just hug him one more time…if he could just see life in his blue eyes once more…if he could have just said goodbye…he knew he would be able to find the beginning to escape this nightmare. If he could just hear that strong voice speak one word, just one word and he knew it would lead him to finding peace. But no; he was gone. And Thranduil's heart and spirit were broken. This was an endless shadow of night. And like the dawning of the day, he did not know if there could be a dawning for this. Could there ever even be a dawning for the shadow in his heart? Thranduil believed that it could not be so. He could not find his way without him. Never had he felt so alone…so lost.

Thranduil came out of his deep trance when his ears picked up a light noise coming from outside. When his mind deciphered what it was, his heart swelled in anguish once again.

It was his people. This battle against Sauron had torn the spirits of the Silvan Elves apart. For their army, it had been a day of doom, a day where the spirits of the majority of their army were taken away. It was a day lost to the survivors, a day where all grieved for their fallen fathers and brothers, cousins and uncles, sons and nephews and friends of the heart. The survivors of the Silvan army grieved for their loss and grieved heavily for the loss of their king, the king that they had loved beyond imagine and gave their unending loyalty to. Their voices were raised, the spirit of the song light but heavy upon the soul. It was music cried to the stars, tears wept for the death surrounding them. It was a song weeping their despair over the death of their king. The one who they had trusted more than any other to lead their people was gone. The lay of the dead was raised and all sung it to the heavens.

Thranduil closed his eyes once again and laid his head back down on his father's chest. The tears continued to come as, inwardly, he prayed that Námo would take him instead of his beloved father. Though he would rather trade in his life, he despaired at knowing it would never happen. His father and king were gone. And the voices of their people singing out their grief knew so, too.

The lament of Greenwood the Great had begun and would not end for many years to come.

O = O = O

Elrond led his horse in a gentle trot up to the crest of the hill, Glorfindel's mare, with Glorfindel atop him, followed only a step behind. Another horseman, Cereg, a sergeant among the archers and one of the banner-bearers, bearing the banner of the High King Gil-galad, followed in their wake. When Elrond reached the crest, he reined in his horse, the others following his example, as the three of them beheld the sight before their eyes. Dawn was fighting its way over the horizon, the meager light barely breaking the coarse shadows of the windswept plains. But beneath them was the encampment of the Silvan Elves of Greenwood and it was quiet. Very quiet. Out of all the armies that had joined as the Last Alliance, the forces of Oropher had been the largest. And now they looked down on the unnumbered pitched tents, set up in numerous organized rows, and felt grieved at knowing that at least half of them were now unoccupied and would remain so. The encampment looked dead and sounded no different. From this distance, barely any movement could be seen. It was as though the whole army had lain down to sleep.

"It is so silent," Cereg murmured in a whisper, as though afraid a raised voice may make the unbearable silence of the plain even more so.

Elrond nodded in unspoken agreement. "They have lost much," he replied. "For some, the impact will be too heavy for the mind to come to terms with."

"Alone they are not in that aspect of grief," Glorfindel inputted quietly.

Elrond shot a half calculating look to the Elda, though nodding briefly in agreement, before leading his horse down the slope of the hill. "We had best hurry," he told his companions. "Time is not on our side this day." The other two fell in line behind him, keeping firm holds on the reins as the slope attempted to crumble beneath the horses' hooves.

Elrond was exhausted and the sight of what lay before him was not helping him any. To a certain degree, every leader had to be detached from the horrors that war brought. The higher up in rank one was, the more so he had to be. And as the herald of Gil-galad it was with upmost determination that he attempted to maintain an emotionally detached persona during this war with Sauron, but he could not deny that after the battles of the previous day, he was hard-pressed to uphold that façade. That mask was crumbling, both from the sheer heaviness of what had happened and simply from the lack of desire to keep it up. The results of yesterday were too great for anyone to pretend that they were not affected by it, for better or for worse.

For the better, they were successful, Elrond mused, he and his compatriots now half way to the borders of the camp. After a heavy assault, Sauron had finally been driven back into Barad-dûr. Though it had cost many lives, they had finally gained the upper hand. Now this morning, decisions had to be made and all the soldiers of Elves and Men had to be represented for it. And that is why Elrond rode now to the encampment of Greenwood the Great.

Even though it was an overall victory for the Alliance of Elves and Men, the contingents of Oropher had suffered greatly and for a needless cause, as far as Elrond and Gil-galad were concerned. At the council placed immediately before the ordained battle, Gil-galad had assigned explicit instructions to the Woodland hierarchy; to provide the central offensive force on the left flank. Oropher, recognizing that the open field with no well-built shield wall to their immediate left (even though they would practically become the shield wall for the fourth and fifth battalions to their right) would be an open target to Sauron's minions, questioned the High King's reasoning for placing the whole of his army in a dead zone. Gil-galad had rationally explained that providing such an open target would place Sauron's attention away from the central command of the battle, allowing them to break through and drive a wedge between the enemy lines, forcing dissension among the dark hoards of Mordor, allowing them to bring about their defeat all that sooner and swifter. If there was ever a rule in a time of war, it was to never allow your forces to be divided. Oropher had wondered how Gil-galad knew that Sauron would be deceived by such a bluff and he had been told that it was simply the knowledge on everyone's part that the Woodland Elves contained valiant hearts and matching skill. Only they would rightfully dare to take on such a daunting task. Not to mention that the size of their army was intimidating to most enemies. But it would only work to the greatest effect if Oropher advanced his army at the sound of three ascending notes on the horn. Only then, was he to advance, for the timing had to be exact. Even though he wanted to maintain his independence along with Amdír, the two Silvan kings knew that division among the Alliance could only cause disruption and more complications than what war already brought. Despite that Oropher had resented merely the thought of being placed under the command of the Noldor, even though he this time did so willingly for the main attack, he too approved of the simple yet effective plan and made it clear that he and his regiments would await the signal to advance.

But that was just the problem, Elrond knew. Oropher had not waited. He had advanced before the signal had sounded. And for the life of all things sacred, he could not contemplate why the Woodland King had done such a thing. Sauron had fallen for the bluff and sent the large portion of his forces to annihilate the left flank, but Oropher had gone too soon. And because he went with the attack too soon, the Eagles, who had informed Gil-galad and his command that they would be coming to aid the left and right flanks, had come too late. The damage had been done. The Woodland army had been decimated, over half of their main force lost.

Elrond shook his head in bewilderment, closing his eyes as his body rocked to the gentle sway of the gate of his horse that continued to carry him to the Greenwood's encampment. He could not help but wonder why. Why? Why had Oropher done this? What had led him to make that insane decision to advance before queued to? Almost unconsciously, his mind flashed back to a rough conversation held in the Command pavilion not four hours ago.

_Relief, excitement, anxiety, fear…it was all in the air, tense to the point of breaking. The pavilion contained a majority of the commandants of all the armies of Elves, Men, and Dwarves. Discussions and debates lasted well over half an hour over the victory of driving Sauron back to Barad-dûr, the success taking place not three hours ago. But now they had inevitably moved on to discussing the heavy losses. Amroth, heavily weighed down by the death of his father and the intensity of the battle, wearily explained how the forces of Lórinand had come to be trapped in the Dead Marshes. And another large part of that conversation included the supposed recklessness of King Oropher. Elrond stood there, silent, as he listened to the proceedings. Gil-galad and Lord Círdan also stood in silence, too listening. Neither took sides; they simply listened. Both knew that a possible idea could spring to mind at hearing just one specific word spoken. And they both wanted to know the reasoning behind Oropher's supposed reckless resolution._

_Voices were raised and questions were asked repeatedly. Some declared that Oropher had done it out of spite, that he had done it to declare that he was independent of Gil-galad's command. Some say that the Silvan Elvenking had relied on his own judgment instead of the High King's, whose hindsight encompassed the entirety of the battle. And some say that it was just purely the bad luck that always arose at some point in war. And unlike the presence of Amroth, who represented the Lórinand forces, no one was there to speak for Greenwood the Great; therefore, they had to rely on their own deductions and wisdom. _

_Elrond looked over to Glorfindel and was caught off guard by what he saw. Usually in the presence of such debates, Glorfindel remained impassive. But this time he looked tense, almost angry. He was unsure what had caused fury to stir in the Elda, but he knew from past experience that an angry Glorfindel was not someone to cross. His body, though a tad tense, remained impassive, but one could see the intensity and fury alit his eyes like a beacon. Elrond opened his mouth to speak, but Glorfindel beat him to it as he stepped forward into the meager light. _

"_If I may gain the attention," he interrupted, his deep voice reaching easily to every corner of the pavilion. Silence abruptly fell and Elrond wondered if they too had heard the warning note in his voice. But Gil-galad gestured for him to continue and he did, his voice deceptively calm and obviously forced to stay quiet, but all could hear the underlying anger in his tone. _

"_Ask him," he said abruptly, his attention on Gil-galad and yet on everyone. "Thranduil yet lives; you can ask him. Oropher may have had no love for the Noldor and remained as independent as he could be in this assault, but never would he sacrifice the lives of his people in such an ill-mannered course of action." He turned his gaze to all present and raised his voice by only a little. "Many of you call it spite, that in defiance of the High King he advanced to clarify and define his own kingship and sovereignty. Call it what you want; whether it would be malevolence or greed, Oropher would _never_ forfeit the lives of his people through such a selfish and despicable way." _

_His gaze, fiercer than ever that looked on the verge of losing patience, swiveled back to Gil-galad. Though when he spoke, all knew that he was still addressing all in the tent. "With all due respect, my king, you are missing a piece of the puzzle. There is a reason why Oropher led the advance before directed to and before making ill judgment upon him, I highly suggest that we ask his son why he did so." His attention turned back to all in the pavilion. "He may not have loved the Noldor and he may have had to swallow his own pride to fall under this particular instruction of our king, but he did so willingly for the sake of his people. As the king, he _knows_ that his first duty is to his populace and that if he must forgo everything he holds dear to see that they remain alive, he would have." He gave a respectful nod of his head towards Gil-galad. "Forgive my argumentation and curt words, my king, but I highly suggest that we ask the chain of command of Greenwood before arriving to uncorroborated conclusions. Go and ask." _

_An awkward silence had fallen in the pavilion where Elrond had wondered if no one simply knew what to say to that or if none of them simply wanted to be the first to speak. But Gil-galad was looking at Glorfindel's angry countenance with approval and a hint of admiration. He knew that Glorfindel had lived, seen and experienced more than most others in that tent and he trusted the Elda's judgment explicitly and without question in matters such as these. The High King gave a small, tired smile as he nodded._

"_There is nothing to forgive, Lord Glorfindel," he said firmly, "for you are right in this matter. We have much to discuss and many preparations to plan and make; we cannot waste our time with such debates." He looked to his herald. "Elrond, go acquire this information and bring it back to me. Perhaps it will lend us some insight on what to do next." His countenance then softened. "And please, give my condolences to the new king."_

Elrond had planned to go only with a small escort, but wherever Elrond went, Glorfindel went too. But still, the herald had gone willingly and he knew that his king had also sent him because he was a rather close friend to Thranduil. And in light of what had happened, the last person the new Woodland king needed to be addressed by was someone who did not care. Elrond knew he had to play it carefully. For aside from offering heartfelt condolences, Gil-galad had sent Elrond mainly to find the answer to that very simple yet paramount question. Why? And he intended to get the answer.

The company continued their silent trot, none of them inclined to speak. But Elrond turned almost hesitantly to Glorfindel, who rode beside him, and spoke in a low enough voice to be only heard by the Elda's ears.

"My friend, what has you so aggravated?" he asked.

Glorfindel glanced over to him, his brow slightly furrowed. "I am afraid that I do not understand, Elrond. What are you talking about?"

"Back in the pavilion of Gil-galad," he explained quietly, "everyone could tell that you were irate. What had aggravated you so? You are normally not like that."

Glorfindel's confusion cleared and he shook his head slightly in self-admonishment. "I should not have reacted in such a way. Worry not, Elrond. That moment has passed."

Elrond nodded his head in acquiesce, but Glorfindel saw his stubbornness come through. "That may be true, but nevertheless, I would like to know what exactly it was that you reacted to. Was it their words that angered you?"

Glorfindel grimaced in uncertainty. "Partly."

Elrond gave a small sigh. "I know that one should not assume, but they were only bouncing ideas off of each other to figure out the reasoning of what the late king did. Yes, some thoughts did not place Oropher in the best light, but I find it hard to believe that that would anger you. What words did they say that caused you to be infuriated?"

Glorfindel gave a small shake of his head, a glimmer of his previous rage coming through his countenance again. "It was not so much their words as to how they spoke them that bothered me."

Elrond waited until it became obvious that the Elda would not speak further. He shook his head slightly in exasperation; his friend could be so frustrating when he decided to be. Turning back to his protector, he gestured almost impatiently. "Would you care to elaborate?"

Glorfindel looked at him again and gave another small shake of his head, this time in disappointment. "There is nothing wrong with drawing conclusions. Half the time, on a moment's notice, they have to be based off of assumptions. Most of our decisions are made as such in a time of battle, as you well know." Elrond nodded in understanding and Glorfindel clenched his jaw. "We do not know why Oropher did what he did. Maybe, after all, it was out of spite, or ill-judgment, or recklessness. We will not know until we ask, but who knows? Maybe it was as the advisors suggested."

Elrond cocked his head. "But?"

Glorfindel took a deep breath. "But…they could have spoken their words with a bit more respect. Oropher was chosen by the Silvan Elves to be their king and that alone should prove his worth and the loyalty that the Wood-elves gave him. And now he is dead. Many people in this Alliance may have begrudged him, but that gave them no excuse to disregard his death. By disrespecting him they also disrespect the Silvan populace of Greenwood as a whole. It does not matter who it is, the dead deserve to be respected. And by their words they showed none. And _that_ is what has me infuriated."

Elrond nodded in understanding. It made sense, after all. Most of the kings and leaders had willingly fallen under the command of Gil-galad at the start of the war. Only Kings Oropher and Amdír had made it clear that they wished to retain their independence. That decision, of course, had met much disagreement with the rest of the Alliance. But Gil-galad had not argued, he had simply asked for their cooperation, which they had swiftly guaranteed. Though the High King had made no complaint, many of the other commanders did and from then on begrudged Oropher and Amdír for their desire to remain independent, particularly when the use of their massive army could have been put to greater use under Gil-galad's control, or so they had thought.

And now those two armies had taken on the heaviest losses. No one in that pavilion had spoken as though Oropher had deserved to die. None were that insensitive. But at the same time, as Glorfindel had stated, no one had spoken as if they had particularly mourned the king's death either. They were upset with Oropher for what he had done, of course. His advancement before queued had caused a brief fallback for the chief force, but nothing so drastic that panic had set in. Amdír's situation of being trapped in the Dead Marshes was downright unfortunate. The bad luck that comes with every war seemed to shine through with that particular catastrophe. But none spoke out against Amdír since he had not directly defied a request made by Gil-galad, unlike Oropher. Elrond wished that someone had been there, Thranduil particularly, to speak for Greenwood, to give an explanation. But at the same time, he mused, he was grateful Thranduil had not been there. If he had heard some of the accusations made against his father, it could have turned ugly. But Elrond knew Gil-galad had never begrudged Oropher. Despite their differences and how Oropher wanted nothing to do with the Noldor for understandable reasons, Gil-galad had recognized the strength and wisdom of the Silvan king and, like Oropher, had decided to put aside their differences for the sake of all their people. Even though he had not spoken, Gil-galad, in his wisdom, had not taken sides in that pavilion. Elrond knew that when he saw the approval in his king's eyes while and after Glorfindel had spoken his mind.

But Glorfindel was right. They were missing a piece of the puzzle. And the other commanders, in their anger for the Woodland King, had refused to consider that first. But aside from that, Elrond understood that their disrespect for the late king would touch Glorfindel's nerves deeply. After all, Elrond mused, Glorfindel was the only person in Middle-earth who knew what death was. He imagined that experiencing death put a whole new perspective on things in comparison to just hearing about it. And concerning that hindsight and wisdom, he had to bow to Glorfindel; for it was one he did not have and would hopefully never have to gain.

Elrond nodded after a few moments of silence when Glorfindel had spoken. "You are right, my friend. I can understand why that would cause you irritation." He gave a wan, exhausted smile. "I am glad that you spoke out, though. Had Gil-galad or I done so, though they may not have argued, they would have probably considered us a tad biased. So for that, you have my appreciation."

Glorfindel gave a small nod in return. "Despite the annoyance their words caused me, I still highly doubt that any of those accusations are true. Though I had never known Oropher in the past, it does not sound like the king I have heard so much of."

Elrond raised an eyebrow at him. "For the information you had heard about Oropher…would you not consider _it_ a tad biased?" After all, out of all the people who had spoken with Glorfindel about the Silvan king, who had been many both in the First and Second Ages, Elrond had spoken about him the most. And he had an incredible amount of respect for both Oropher and his son.

Glorfindel gave a small smile in return, but Elrond let it be with a small laugh and then became serious again. "Besides," he added, "I have a feeling that you are absolutely right concerning the missing piece of the puzzle."

They had finally arrived at the borders of the encampment, two warriors guarding the entry way, and Elrond was alarmed to see just how morose the features of the two guards were. Dressed in light armor, weak in comparison to the Noldorin craft, carrying the bow that every Wood-elf was seen with and the war arrows that came with it, along with their other weaponry, the two guards barred the entrance into the camp. Though they maintained their posts, they looked hopeless, Elrond thought. After such devastation and the defeat of their chosen king, they looked downright lost.

Elrond reined in along with the others. "We come here on behalf of the High King Gil-galad," he spoke, his voice clear and confident. "We request an immediate audience with King Thranduil. Paramount matters must be discussed and cannot be postponed."

The two warriors exchanged weary glances before one spoke quickly and quietly in the Silvan dialect that only they could understand. After a few moments, the other guard nodded and swiftly disappeared to the outpost not twenty meters away. The remaining sentry turned his attention back to the High King's entourage.

"I ask you to wait momentarily," he said stoically. "You will be escorted to the royal tent. None are permitted to enter, though there you may speak with Aearion, Chief Advisor of Greenwood the Great."

O = O = O

Aearion stood there, a meter in front of the royal pavilion with his eyes closed and his head slightly bowed. Though he stood at attention, if one looked closely, one could see the exhaustion lining every contour of his body. The heavy assault of yesterday had drained him of most of his strength. His limbs felt limp, sluggish, as though he had woken from a long, deep sleep. He knew that if he had been told to run to the outer rim of the camp, he would run the risk of collapsing to the ground in mid stride, the weight of his own body becoming too much for his legs to bear. Though part of that, he knew, was because he had still not obtained any rest since before that battle began. But his eyes were closed for other reasons aside from that exhaustion.

One of them was downright worry; a worry fully centered on all the warriors of the camp themselves. Aearion did not need all the five senses to be aware of the screaming despair blanketing the encampment. The very air he breathed was enflamed by it. Hearing the heart-wrenching lament that the Wood-elves had lifted up to the stars had driven his eyes shut, the torment and anguish of their devastation weighing down his very soul, the lament only magnifying it. If he strained his hearing, if he just took a moment to forget his jumbled thoughts and focus purely on listening, he would almost be able to hear the soft cries of that lament getting carried across the plain on the gentle wind that caressed his cheek. Where the Alliance had achieved victory, the army Greenwood the Great had obtained defeat; over half of their army was gone, some of their bodies still littering the battle plain, being searched for, waiting to be carried away to lie among the other dead. Aearion was fearful for the Silvan forces; he would be a fool to deny it. Their morale was gone, shattered by the catastrophic horror of last eve. Their hope had faded; the hope of survival, the hope of victory…it was now nonexistent. And Aearion was frightened for them because he honestly did not know if they would ever regain the smallest sense of hope. Out of all the armies and warriors in this powerful Alliance, they had been the most valiant. And he was now afraid that that valiance might be no more. As an Elf can fade from grief, the soul of the army itself was fading. The loss of their brothers-in-arms was tragic and heartbreaking to many, certainly inconsolable to the extreme, but yet, in the end, it was endurable. But the loss of their king proved to be the fatal blow.

For Oropher had not just been any king. The people of the Woodland Realm had not bowed to him because they had to; they had bowed to him only because they had wanted to. Out of all the Elves they could have chosen to be their king, out of all the other people among their own kin who may have been more suited, they had chosen a lone Elf from a different kin and a different world. No, Aearion corrected himself, they had chosen two Elves, two Elves of his own kin, the Sindar, and whom he called his family. He remembered how he, Oropher, Thranduil and a few others had set out to trek a great journey to find the lost kin beyond the Hithaeglir. Though they had been welcomed, they had still been strangers and, to this day, Aearion was amazed with how quickly the Silvan Elves had come to love Oropher. Time had passed and in their eyes, he knew that they had seen a potential just leader. He knew they had seen a prideful being, one of wisdom, one of great strength of both body and mind, one with a valiant heart to contest even the greatest of Elves, and one who had obtained an unspeakable dedication to the Elves of the great forest. And in no time, the Wood-elves had asked for his service to them through becoming their king. Though he had been a lord of Doriath, Oropher, Aearion knew, had hesitated on taking up such a daunting duty. But his love for these people, which had grown so quickly and immensely over the few years, had swiftly ended that inner debate and persuaded him to willingly take up the throne. Oropher's loyalty to them had been a mirror image of their loyalty to him, and that loyalty was unfathomable, reaching beyond the limits of the World. It was a beautiful harmony, a great unity between monarch and subject. And in Thranduil, he knew, they had seen a mirror image of his father, both in strength of character and dedication to them. And at their request, Thranduil, too, had stepped up to be heir to the Woodland throne. Though he had not been surprised, Aearion had never felt such pride for the two people closest to his heart. And as he knew, Oropher had become the great king that the Silvan Elves knew he would be.

And now that king was gone, stolen away from his heart and every heart of their militia. And that is why he feared for his people; he was afraid it was a wound they would not be able to recover from. He knew that they would not fade, but would their spirit ever grow back to the magnificence it used to be before this tragedy?

Another factor that kept his eyes closed was his ever persistent memory, a memory he currently wanted to curse. His mind and inner vision continued to be plagued with the horror he had seen not twelve hours ago, the nightmare that had brought about this unrelenting despair. No matter his attempts at distraction, the image was branded there, an everlasting reminder of how his deepest, closest friend had been taken away from him, never to be returned.

_He fought with an unfathomable energy that had been buried for a long time, his old skill in swordcraft proving to be as deadly and impenetrable as ever. Though he maintained control of his sanity, he could not help but feel the malice for the Orcs that was found deep within every Elf. He refused to panic – panicking would help no one right now. But they were simply everywhere. For every spawn of evil he killed, it seemed three more were there to take its place. The hoards of Mordor were crushing the Silvan forces and it was as though he could feel the beginnings of panic settling in the minds of his people. This was not good, he knew. This was very far from good, though that might just be the understatement of the year. _

_All of the sudden, a great sense of fear and dread overcame him. It engulfed him, wrapped around his mind and penetrating every thought. But he knew not where this fear and dread came from even the slightest. Even more so, the air around them became cold as though the chilling grip of death itself were haunting them. And it became dark. Not to an incredible degree, but the light around them seemed to blot out to just a shade darker that only Elven eyes could pick up. _

_All this he perceived within a second, finally breaking through the guard of the disgusting creature, his sword ripping through his throat, blood spattering across his stained armor, when he spun around, looking frantically for his liege and prince. He finally spotted them and was alarmed at just how far they were ahead of him. Not ten seconds ago, they were not three meters away. Now they were approximately twenty paces away. He had no idea how they had come to be so far out, but he was horrified to see that they were surrounded by more Orcs than their own people. But still, Oropher and Thranduil, nearly shoulder to shoulder, were going at it, proving just how magnificent Elven speed and strength really were. Calling out a swift order to any who could hear him, he ran as fast as he could to them, though he was slowed down immeasurably by the Orcs who he simply sliced down left and right since they dared to stand in his way. He did not need to look behind him to know he was being followed by those who had heard his call. But his horror magnified when he finally made out what his king and prince were facing, the very reason that explained why he had felt this powerful feeling of dread and fear, of why it became cold and dark._

_A Nazgûl. The one enemy they had not anticipated facing in this assault. Dark and terrible in its swathing black robes, evil seemed to just radiate from it, becoming the embodiment of the darkness surrounding the servant of Sauron. Darkness followed him, overshadowing the Elves he killed and overpowered as he followed his path to his target. And Aearion knew just who the target was – or were._

_It was as though time had slowed down; making him feel as though his legs were not moving quickly enough, though the adrenaline was racing faster than ever. Too far away, he could do nothing but watch in horror as the Ringwraith finally reached his target. _

_Thranduil, occupied still with several Orcs surrounding him, had not seen the arrival of the new menace in their vicinity, unlike Oropher who had. Frozen in mind, the seconds seemed to last for an eternity as he saw the scene unfold before his eyes. Oropher had undeniably seen the Úlaire and measured him up. But to Aearion's bewilderment, he turned on his heel until facing his son and, with his right hand, he shoved Thranduil to the right with such a violence that it would have impress any Orc. And because of that ferocity, Thranduil easily stumbled further to the right and nearly fell to his knees. _

_But that action, that simple movement that took only half a second to perform, had been the Doomsman's call. Unable to shield himself from the oncoming blows of the Nazgûl and Orcs that came with him after his attention was taken, the king fell, simply from the crushing weight of the enemy. Like Thranduil, like the Silvan Elves with him, like the Orcs surrounding him, like any creature whose attention was claimed by the Nazgûl, he saw the sword lifted by that cruel hand. And then all of the sudden…it was over._

_No…no…just no. His mind was frozen and his heart seemed to stop beating. But all too quickly, as though shaken out of a daze, he was brought back to the present at the sound of screaming. It was Thranduil and the sound tore at his heart from the weight of anguish it carried. Putting his own thoughts aside for later, he rushed forward those last few steps and grabbed both of Thranduil's arms with an unrelenting grip. Oropher was gone and he knew who the next target of the Nazgûl was. He pulled at Thranduil and dragged him away, releasing a brief sigh of relief when the Silvan prince, now rightful king, did not refuse, but submitted to his forceful demands. He shouted another order and the warriors reacted instantly, rushing in to form a thick shield wall between the enemy and their only living royal._

_Only one thought occupied his mind and that was that Thranduil had to live. And by the Valar, and by Oropher, he would see with every breath in his body that it would be so. And the first start of that was to take him to a rear regiment, so that he would be surrounded by the warriors who had sworn to give their lives for him. And so he pulled him in that direction and Thranduil went. _

And still, he had yet to shed any tears since returning to the camp. That deep grief he had buried had yet to be healed. After living for so long, he knew that he needed to if he were ever to start healing. But a large part of him refused to, and for a very simple reason; now was not the time to. All of the Silvan Elves of Greenwood the Great were already grieving, for their own losses and for the loss of their king. And though he knew they would soon regain control of themselves, rather quickly for the uncertainty of the future, that torment of the soul would not be going away any time soon. The Woodland Elves needed a leader who still had enough self-control and a clear mind. And he knew that if he gave into his grief right now, to be relieved of it, it would take him far from the present as he retreated into his own shell. And that could be done later, for right now they needed a leader and after Thranduil, he was the one assigned with that task.

Thranduil…Aearion was beyond worried for the prince…the king. Even in his mind, the words tasted foreign and he knew that if he spoke them aloud they would be inaudible. Thranduil's grief was beyond heavy, as he knew it would be, and on returning Oropher's body to his son, he had swiftly ordered him to take the time he needed to say goodbye. And it was at the time of bringing back his body that Aearion had started to release some of the tears.

_It was so silent. All he could hear was the soft braying of the wind whipping up the dust of the plain and his own soft footfalls. The battlefield, now scarce of both enemy and Alliance, was littered with corpses further than the mind would ever care for the eye to see. There were tens of thousands of them, whether they be Elf, Man, Dwarf or Orc. In any direction he turned, there was no life on this dead combat zone. There were several hundred people about, of course, searching for their dead comrades to carry back to the prepared pyres. But they were further back whereas he made his way further into where the Orcs made up the majority of scattered corpses. The pre-dusk sent shadows across the plain, making the blood soaked ground seem all the more dark and the fallen Elves he spotted all the more gruesome. It was truly a torturous sight to the mind and one he knew he would never forget. These were his people. These were the Elves he had pledge his allegiance to and offered his service. Their bodies contorted in haphazard ways, he felt his heart break all over again at the sight of their lifeless bodies, their armaments broken and coated in their own blood. But he looked upon each individual Elf for a reason; there was only one he was looking for. _

_And all too soon, he found him. On the battle ground designated to the Silvan forces, Oropher's body lay the furthest in towards Morannon, for he had led the attack, promising to the people that he would always be the first and last to assail the enemy and that none would have to go before him or after him. And Thranduil, as the prince, would follow his example. For Oropher had incontrovertibly impressed upon his people that in such times, they would always see his back before them and never his face behind them. For if he was to be their true king, he would lead first, attack first, and, if Eru willed it so, die first. No matter how much they wanted to, he would allow no Silvan Elf to go before him at the charge. _

_Aearion, who had yet refused to shed one tear, felt his eyes sting as he simply stared at his lifeless king. His chest was covered in blood, the wound itself looking black. His eyes were open and empty and his glow was fully gone. His hair had lost its luster and his skin had already begun to undertake that ashy paleness. He was now nothing more than a shell._

_His vision now blurring, he slowly kneeled down next to his body, his joints protesting the change in position, but he did not care. He could not even feel it. Hesitantly, almost fearfully, he rested a calloused hand against his cheek, the touch incredibly light and soft. It was as though the hand itself did not want to touch him, to prevent from shattering the illusion that this might not be real. But at the feel of his cheek, the skin being lightly brushed by his fingertips, cold skin at that, he lost his self-control. It could not be helped; he wept, lightly and calmly at first, but soon enough sobs racked his chest and the tears came ever harder, no matter how hard he tried to prevent it. His hand trembling, he reached up and gently closed the late king's eyes, now making him seem all the more gone. Closing his own eyes tightly, Aearion slowly leaned forward and placed a kiss on his forehead before resting his own against it. His best friend, the one person he had known all his life, was gone._

The arrival of their late king's body had been previously announced to the Silvan forces before he had arrived. But when he did arrive, he was touched beyond words to see how many people were waiting for him – for them. They had lined the pathway to the royal tent, all standing, all silent, all watching. And as he had walked down that pathway, Oropher's body lying on the pallet that he carried the front of, the Elves had taken their last bow; hand to their heart, knee to the ground, head lowered, they had said their farewell to their beloved king.

There had seemed to be an unspoken agreement that no Elf would enter the tent. Though he had known it to be unnecessary, Aearion had silently placed himself at the tent's entrance to see that that was so. Though it seemed, as time passed, none even dared to enter the tent's premises. As was now a commonly ground belief, though the Alliance had achieved a victory, the Elves of Greenwood the Great had obtained defeat.

But one thing Aearion had pondered unnumbered times already was why Oropher had pushed Thranduil aside in the first place. He saw the whole thing and Thranduil had been in no immediate danger. The Nazgûl had approached on Oropher's side, thereby making Thranduil the secondary target. Yes, his life was being threatened, but not so drastically that a desperate action as that had to be taken. His soul was in torment; he needed the answer to that question and now he would probably never get it. He could not help but think that maybe, just maybe, if Oropher had not taken that mere half a second to shove his son away, he might be alive to watch the dawning of this new day. He may have been better able to shield himself and gain ground on his enemy. Or maybe he still would have died. But now he would simply never know. It was undeniably a question whose answer would remain in the dark and haunt him for his remaining years in Middle-earth.

At seeing a dark hue of red permeating his eyelids, he opened his eyes and did so slowly and with much effort, his exhaustion making a small action as that wearisome to do. The sunlight, barely breaking over the horizon, seemed so pure and innocent, a breath of fresh air; it was untainted. But he knew that no light would be able to break the shadow over their hearts, for not even the stars of Elbereth could.

Almost by accident, he caught sight of movement in the distance. He had become so used to seeing no movement in the vicinity of the tent behind him that this sudden movement was an eyesore. And after a few moments, he easily made out the banner of High King Gil-galad. And riding around it were three people who, in turn, were escorted towards him, apparently, by a contingent of Silvan warriors. Barely a hundred meters off, he was able to make out the figures of Elrond and Glorfindel, though the other one he knew not. What were they doing here, he absently pondered. When they twenty meters away, he walked out to them, closing the remaining distance. Elrond, recognizing Aearion, dismounted and signaled for the other two to do so as well.

"Lord Elrond, Lord Glorfindel," he greeted, giving a respectful nod of the head to each.

"Chief Advisor Aearion," Elrond reciprocated. He looked over Aearion's shoulder and gestured towards the tent. "Will you permit me to enter?"

Aearion hesitated, seeming to think it over, before giving a slight nod. "Know that if you were not a close friend of Thranduil, I would not permit it." He stepped aside and gestured towards the tent. "You may enter."

Giving another nod, this time of gratitude, Elrond made his way over. Aearion looked towards the five warrior escort. "You may return to your posts," he ordered, and they did so swiftly. Now it was only the three of them, though Cereg, opting to give them some privacy, remained a respectful distance away, having no doubt that they would be talking at some point. And indeed they did.

"Please, Glorfindel," he said quietly, "ask me something. Say anything. Just direct my attention elsewhere."

Glorfindel gave a wan, understanding smile. "There is actually something I would like to know," he said softly. "Elrond had told me that while the king and prince were absent from Amon Lanc you would be the one to obtain the responsibilities of their positions. May I inquire as to why you are with the army or was Elrond simply misinformed?"

Aearion shook his head. "No, Lord Elrond was informed correctly. Oropher and I did argue about it, quite a few times, actually. His reasons were justified, of course. But I told him that since the majority of our people were marching, I, too, would march with them. Besides," he added with a small sigh, "it was not so very long ago that I served as a warrior. And my skill could potentially be used to greater effect here than it would back home, being that I was a warrior far longer than an advisor."

Glorfindel nodded slowly, accepting the logical answer for what it was. Though when he saw Aearion once again obtain that far-off quality to his gaze, he quickly gained his attention again.

"Aearion?" he said softly, almost uncertainly. The advisor looked to him questionably, and Glorfindel laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I am deeply sorry for your loss. Though I had never known him, I know that Oropher was a just ruler and a much beloved king." While out on the battlefield, fighting alongside Elrond, he had seen the banners of Greenwood the Great fall and knew within that moment that her king had fallen with them. And he could not help but wonder how many more kings would fall before this was all over.

Aearion closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to regain that self-control he had been harboring all night. After a few moments, he opened them again and looked at the Elda in uncertainty. He could not help but ask; he had to ask. "I know not the Valar, Glorfindel. But I do want to know…I need to know…." He hesitated, uncertain of how to verbalize his hope.

Glorfindel gave a small, knowing smile. "He is at peace, Aearion," he said. "You may trust me when I say that he is at peace in the care of Mandos."

O = O = O

Elrond paused before the heavy flaps of the entrance. He knew what was inside and took a deep breath before pulling them back and entering.

It was dark. There was no light whatsoever save for the meager moonlight filtering in from the passage opened by the support beam. But the darkness was not what robbed his breath. He looked down into the expressionless face of the former king of Greenwood and felt a dread overcome his heart. But then he shifted his gaze to the object of agony; Thranduil. The former prince sat beside his father's body, his posture radiating the utter inner defeat. He half lay over his father's chest, resting his right arm on the pallet as he looked down into his pale face, his gaze intently studying every contour of his countenance, as though committing it to memory, his left hand caressing and pushing the blond hair, which he could see had now lost its luster, away from his forehead. Elrond stood there, hopeless, as he watched him endure the pain of all pains. He was in anguish for his friend, but this time…this time he could do nothing, for nothing could be done.

He sympathized with the grieving Sinda, but he had no room to speak of comfort and understanding. He could barely remember his father; therefore, he could not interpret the agony that Thranduil now endured and would have to continue to endure, the heartache of losing his father who was his king. It was truly the pain of all pains and one that could never be healed.

Elrond wanted to make Thranduil aware of his presence, but he feared to speak, to break the muse of the now new king. He remained silent, uncertain of how to proceed. Therefore, he nearly jumped when he heard the barely audible voice of the Sindarin royal.

"Why are you here?" he whispered, his voice broken and vulnerable. He did not raise his eyes, but Elrond could practically feel his shattered spirit as he knelt down on the other side of the cot.

The herald of Gil-galad looked intently at Thranduil and hesitantly rested a hand on his shoulder. "Thranduil, my friend," he began, but then his voice caught. To see his friend, his friend that exemplified pride and honor and loyalty, brought this low to such a level of despair and mourning that he felt to be utterly broken was difficult.

"Thranduil," he tried again, "I am so sorry." He put as much meaning and authenticity into the useless words as possible. For what could be said at the loss of one's father, the loss of one's king? What words could ever convey the sympathy one feels? But that was the crux of it; Elrond knew that there were no words, for no words could describe the love the father and son held for each other. Though he could not relate to the loss of a father, he could somewhat understand the loss of his king. And without anyone's awareness, he constantly prayed and hoped to the Valar every day during the existence of this war that he would never have to lose Gil-galad. He just had to live, for the Star of Radiance to be absent in his life would mean a gaping hole would be left that could never be filled. But Thranduil, he knew, now had a large hole, a gaping wound that would never be fully healed. Goodbye was truly the saddest word that could ever be heard.

Thranduil said nothing to the words of Elrond. He only continued to look at his father's expressionless face, his own countenance blank of emotion save for the light line of tears rimming his eyes. But Elrond was alarmed to see that the brightness of those blue eyes had actually dimmed by a small degree, evidence of just how heavy the grief was on his heart. Elrond squeezed his shoulder.

"I come here from Gil-galad," he said quietly. "He gives his condolences for the loss of your king. He was a noble leader and valiant at heart. He says that if there is anything he can do to aid you and your people he will do it. Just ask him. Or ask me," he stressed, shaking the shoulder slightly. "Though the Silvans and Noldor were never on the best of terms, death is a gateway where there are no boundaries or barriers. And our friendship is too strong for any grudge to exist." He grasped the shoulder harder and he tried to catch Thranduil's frozen gaze. "I am here for you, Thranduil. Do not bear this alone."

There was no reaction from the new king, save for the lone tear falling down his cheek. His gaze was riveted on the face of his father. It was as though as if he removed his gaze from that stern and powerful face, he would finally be saying goodbye. But he did not want to. To say goodbye would mean that he was finally gone. Against his will, another tear fell.

Elrond was quickly losing hope. "Thranduil, please, say something," he nearly begged. A dreadful silence passed where nothing could be heard save for the laments of the Wood-elves. Their voices, though beautiful as they sang to the stars of Elbereth, tore at the heart. Death, truly, was the ultimate enemy. No other enemy or contraption of evil could leave behind what Death freely gave.

Elrond gave a small sigh and was about to speak again, for he had brought another message from Gil-galad, after all, when a soft voice, barely audible among the singing outside, spoke.

"Who else is with you?" he murmured, his gaze still riveted on his father's body.

Elrond sighed. "Lord Glorfindel and Cereg, a banner-bearer of Gil-galad."

Again, the quiet voice was heard. "Why have you come?"

And now Elrond hesitated. Now it seemed that the moment had come where that simple question needed to be asked, but he was uncertain about what his friend's reaction would be. Thranduil was not an irrational person, but blinded by this grief he was drowning in, he might get defensive of his father and end up not giving a clear answer to the question at all. But the question itself could not be delayed any further.

"I will be blunt with you, Thranduil, for I know that you would have it no other way," he said resignedly. He then took a deep breath and plunged in. "King Gil-galad has sent me to acquire an answer to a particular question; why did you advance before you were given the signal to?" He could not change the meaning of the words, but he did try to say it with as much gentleness as he could.

_That_ garnered a reaction, he saw, and not a very pleasant one. His head did not turn in the slightest, but his gaze was finally ripped from his father's corpse to settle unnervingly on Elrond. Never having looked into Thranduil's eyes yet while in the tent, he finally saw what he had unconsciously felt radiate from his friend – something the proud being was unable to hide; a flash of pure, heart-breaking agony. It was so brief yet so very strong that the deep hurt and soul-screaming pain was easily recognized. And then his strength of character, not to mention stubbornness, came through and an indiscernible mask was put in place but this time Thranduil was looking at Elrond in a way that chillingly sent a shiver down his spine and made him unconsciously lean back; in unmasked anger. Though the agony outweighed the anger, he could even see a hint of confusion within the troubled gaze.

"I want to know, Elrond," he murmured, his voice calm, but unable to hide the mixed emotions of confusion, anger and anguish. "I want to know and I want the truth; did your king know that the Nazgûl would be there?"

And here is where Elrond hesitated. Not because he did not know the answer, because he did know, but because he was now walking on potentially dangerous ground; though he had answered his quandary with another question, Elrond's eyes were finally opening to the beginning of understanding of just why Oropher had led the charge in advance. And it was a growing realization that filled him with much horror and misgiving. He believed he now understood.

Thranduil sat there in silence as he waited, watching his friend with an unfaltering gaze. Though perplexity still racked his mind and despair over what could have possibly happened instead of what did, he was inwardly grateful to see a light of comprehension dawn in Elrond's gray eyes. For it was another time of yesterday that he had no desire to recite whatsoever, for that was the moment everything had gone wrong. But still, like the horrifying sight of his father's life being ripped from him, he couldn't help but remember just what had led his father to make that decision to ignore Gil-galad's signal on the horn.

He remembered, clear as water, how he had stood there next to his father. Oropher's theory concerning Sauron's tactic of taking advantage of the absence of a shield wall had been correct. At the head of the army, his father and he had stood, weapons already drawn, waiting patiently for the three ascending notes on the horn. He recalled the nervous anticipation he had felt that one always feels while waiting to head into battle and he knew that every warrior had been feeling the same. The sound of the encroaching enemy had been deafening; the cadence of thousands of feet marching across the dried, dust laden plain had created a resonance more powerful than the greatest thunderstorm. But unlike the power of nature, that monstrous sound could not be admired. It had been meant to only do one thing; to create fear in the hearts of their enemies and indeed it did to a few, but it increased the nervousness in all.

There were thousands that had been heading towards the left flank, no doubt with any other order other than to annihilate it. And the many hoards had begun to move in accordance to what Oropher had predicted. Approaching heavily on the front, the Orcs had begun to migrate towards their army's extreme left. At first, it had seemed like a massive hoard going awry, but in the end one was able to see that it was a calculated pattern that ensured that, by the time their first blows had struck home, the Woodland forces would have been nearly encircled by the Orcs, enabling the Elves to be crushed between not two, but three massive fronts and destroyed. Though they had been informed that such a thing would happen, Thranduil had not been in the least bit comforted at the fact that it was. He had then looked over to his father, allowing a small amount of uncertainty to show through, but that uncertainty had vanished at seeing his father's countenance; nothing but pure confidence and strength had shown in the Elvenking, despite the obvious dead zone they were about to have been placed in. Thranduil knew that Oropher had worn that mask to provide a sense of surety to his people, but in the end, it had still done Thranduil a world of good to see it himself. No one could be too sure in a time of war, for that was the time when everything could fall apart from the simplest mistake. So the army of Orcs continued to advance in front of them and around them and still, the Silvan warriors had stood their ground, proving the greatest of their valiance all over again, and uttered not a word of doubt, for they trusted their king.

Thranduil had continued to watch when he heard a sudden intake of breath from his left. It was small, it was short, but it was one, he could tell, that had been filled with horror and shock. And then Thranduil himself had too seen what had made his father gasp with such fear; the Nazgûl, six of the Nine, cloaked in shadow and riding black mounts of equal disgrace, were marching with the enemy, heading directly for them. Thranduil had felt a horror he had never experienced before grow within him to an alarming degree. And with that horror was another emotion he would have never equated with war before; despair. The Úlairi, he knew, were undefeatable. No matter how many times one struck them, they could never be killed. Any blade among all the Elves, no matter its core, that attempted to penetrate them would instantly disintegrate. Though it would take time, a lot of time, the Úlairi alone, because they could never be killed, could annihilate the entirety of any army. Thranduil had been privy to all the information Gil-galad had informed Oropher of and _nowhere_ at _any_ time had they been informed that they would have to face the greatest servants of Sauron.

Unable to calm the growing sense of defeat in his being, Thranduil had looked to his father for guidance, for orders, for surety, for anything. And he remembered how he had seen the panic in his father's eyes, panic lined with doubt and fear. And in that moment, Thranduil had known that his father was at a loss on what to do, unsure of what step to take. Oropher had looked around him, taking in the army of Orcs that continued to encircle them. With his analytical mind, Thranduil had seen what Oropher had. Time was no longer on their side and it seemed that good fortune had not been on their side any longer either.

Unless Gil-galad had been going to signal them to charge within the next three seconds, waiting for that blow on the horn had no longer been an option. In light of what they had then seen, to wait for the signal would have been suicide. If the Silvan forces had continued to stand there and wait while the army continued to encircle them, the Elves would have been trapped with no available exits. And once surrounded by the enemy, all the Nazgûl would have had to do was to head in with their hoards and slowly allow the sheer weight of their hoards decimate the Greenwood warriors. It light of that new terror, it had been a no-win situation. If they had waited for Gil-galad, their enemy, by that time, would have surrounded them, the Nazgûl would have rained down on them while they and the Orcs slowly and leisurely annihilated them. And unlike the other armies of the Alliance, the Silvan regiments would have been unable to retreat, being completely cut off by the hoards of Orcs that had encircled them.

To prevent the obvious death sentence placed before them, there had been only one thing to do, only one option remaining. And since it meant a possible survival for his people, Oropher had grasped it desperately and engaged it; he had ordered the advance before Gil-galad had signaled him to. By doing that, not only would it have hopefully caught the enemy temporarily off guard, but the encircling Orcs would have had to cut off their pre-planned path to engage in battle, leaving a possible exit for the Silvan contingents to make their retreat. Since they would have had to then engage the deadly attack of the Nazgûl, to advance early had been the only option to ensure a possible survival of their people.

And that is what Oropher had done. His people, trusting their king explicitly, had followed him into the battle, willing to die for him if that was what had to be done. The consequences had been great, over half their forces lost and their king killed. But Thranduil knew his father had taken the best course of action to ensure the survival of his people that was offered to him, in light of what they had to face.

Thranduil continued to watch Elrond and saw that his mind was working through these facts one by one. And he knew that the herald of Gil-galad had arrived to the same truth that he had just remembered.

"Elrond," he spoke again, this time his voice laced with desperation for an answer to his question. "_Tell me_, did Gil-galad know that the Úlairi would be there?"

Elrond remained silent as he looked at Thranduil with unconcealed regret. He could see the heavy tears in the blue eyes lying just beneath the surface, waiting to break through at the slightest notion. But still, with another sigh, this time of sorrow and apology, he answered Thranduil's question.

"Yes," he said quietly, but with surety. "Gil-galad did know that the Úlairi would be there."

Thranduil closed his eyes tightly and bowed his head, his body shaking with the strain to prevent the tears from falling. And Elrond knew that the only reason Thranduil did not release his tears was because he was there.

And Thranduil was experiencing the feeling of his heart breaking all over again. Elrond had not denied it; Gil-galad had known the Úlairi would be attacking his army. Though he just managed to stop the tears from falling, he was unable to conceal the heartbreak from entering his voice. Head still bowed and eyes still tightly shut, he grasped his father's clothing all the harder. "Why did he not tell us?" he whispered. "Why did your king see fit to leave us in the dark concerning the presence of the Úlairi and the Eagles?"

Yes, Elrond recalled absently, the Eagles had been there. If Oropher had waited for the signal to advance, the Eagles would have appeared in time to take care of the Úlairi and many of the Orcs. But since Oropher had advanced too soon, the Eagles were unable to come in time to save the army from their heavy massacre. And as Thranduil had informed him, they had had no warning that they would be facing the Úlairi in their designated attack range. And likewise, since they had not been informed of the Úlairi, they also had not been informed of the coming arrival of the Eagles.

Pure miscommunication.

"Thranduil," Elrond said, as conciliatory as he could, "he did not willingly neglect to inform you of the Úlairi. At the debriefing your father attended, Gil-galad had not even known that six of the Ringwraiths would be attacking your army. It was not until three hours prior to the first engagement of the battle that a messenger of Thorondor had come to Gil-galad, informing him of the involvement of the Úlairi. He had not known of the danger you would be facing until then."

Thranduil opened his eyes and looked at Elrond in deeper confusion through blurry vision. "Three hours prior to the battle," he repeated faintly. And then anger grew in his voice. "In those three hours would it have been so difficult to send an informant to my father and inform him of this new predicament?"

Elrond gave a slight shrug; he had no answer to give. "As much as I want to, I cannot answer that, Thranduil. Perhaps he was hoping that your father would have trusted him enough to not be informed. I will inquire my king of that, of course, but I cannot answer for him."

Once again, Thranduil had bowed his head, his shoulders shaking as the effort to restrain the tears became unbearable. Because of a mishap in communication, because of a stupid little error in judgment, his father was dead. Elrond hesitantly rested a hand on Thranduil's shoulder.

"Do you blame him?" he asked quietly. After all, in all manners of justice, Thranduil would certainly be justified in blaming Gil-galad for what had happened. But to his relief, the Sinda unsteadily replied with a negative shake of his head. The Noldo patiently waited for him to speak, but then came to realize that Thranduil was unable to.

"Thranduil," he said a tad more firmly, giving his shoulder a slight shake. "Do not refuse to release your tears simply on the account of my presence. I will not be so ignorant and say that I understand how you feel, because I do not. But I do know that you cannot keep this grief bottled up. You need to let it go." He gave the shoulder another shake and spoke again, more desperately. "Please, Thranduil, let it go."

But Thranduil proved to be as stubborn as his father and did not let it go.

O = O = O

Celeborn sighed in relief when he was finally given entry into the encampment of Greenwood the Great. If not for the quick gate of his horse, he would have probably fallen asleep in the saddle. After yesterday's vicious fight out of the Dead Marshes, he was downright exhausted; he had, in fact, never before felt this exhausted. Returning back to the Lórinand base with just more than half their army, he had not obtained any rest, having to uptake most of the duties of Amroth while he, in turn, upheld the duties of his late father. Celeborn had been grieved to hear that Amdír, former king of Lórinand, had fallen prey to the snares of the Dead Marshes, the entrapment making him vulnerable to the attack of the Orcs. Though, he admitted grudgingly, he could not deny that he understood why.

His legs were on fire. And his back felt no better. After being ensnared by the Dead Marshes, the Silvan forces of Amdír had ended up fighting a two way battle, one against the heavy wave after wave of Orcs, and one against the Marshes themselves. And the fight against the latter had been the cause for the death of nearly half of their army. The Marshes had proven to be unbearably challenging. Their muck and weeds had repeated attempted to drag him beneath the surface. And every time he moved in an attempt to pull himself free, he had only sunk lower. In the end, every muscle in his body had ended up being strained as he had clawed, kicked, and crawled his way out of the muck, getting covered in mud in the process. And one could not even see where the Marshes contained these many death traps, so one had to watch your footing, which meant that his attention was taken. And fighting his way out of their powerful snares all the while watching to make sure he did not fall into more and battling against the Orcs that had paraded down on him had been a recipe for disaster. And a disaster it had been. All of Amdír's regiments ended up in that miserable hole and for many an hour he feared that it would be the end for all of them. When he and the remaining army had finally managed to drag themselves out, his legs had been shaking beyond his control. When he had tried to stand straight, his back had protested the smallest movement. His throat had been bone dry, sweat and dirt covering his whole body that felt lifeless. Like all the others, he had literally dragged himself back to the base.

After cleaning up and emergency treatments taken care of, Amroth had headed off to the Command of Gil-galad while he, in his stead, had prepared and organized all the immediate necessities within the camp, which always seemed to take hours. In that time, word had reached the Lórinand base of King Oropher's death. Despite his immense desire to ride to the Greenwood encampment, he knew he had a duty to attend to here first and could not leave until it was finished.

Which had been about an hour ago, he thought grudgingly. And still, in all that time, he had yet to obtain any rest. The weariness in his legs had grown to be a downright painful ache. The smallest jar of the horse or movement on his behalf sent a searing jolt of pain through the entire limb. The intensity of the pain was so unbearable that he would rather lose feeling in his legs all together. And his back too, he added. It also was not being the least bit cooperative.

He once again raised his head when he knew he was close to the center of the camp and saw the banner of Gil-galad. Expanding his vision, he spotted Aearion and Glorfindel silently standing side by side about twenty meters from the tent. Not even bothering to retain any formality, he reined in and slid from the saddle in an exhausted heap.

Aearion stepped closer to him as he grabbed onto his horse to regain a steady foot. "Celeborn," he said, the deadness in his voice lined with a hint of affability. "I can honestly say that it brings me great relief to know that you are alive."

Celeborn took a deep breath and stood straight, cursing his back once again as he did so. Stepping forward, he gave a brotherly embrace to Aearion. "I am so sorry for your loss, my friend," he said quietly in his ear. He then took a step back and looked into Aearion's anguish filled eyes. "I know that he was a great king and that he lived up to that reputation until the end."

Aearion nodded in both understanding and appreciation. "That I know, Celeborn. Thank you. Though do not assume to be as unaffected by it as you are; you had a deep friendship with Oropher as well." The three of them had, after all, spent much time in each other's company while living in Doriath.

Celeborn nodded, a shadow passing over his features. "Where is he?"

Aearion, knowing he meant Thranduil, gestured behind him to the tent. "He is inside. Elrond is with him."

Giving his shoulder another brief squeeze, Celeborn turned to Glorfindel, whom he had become greatly acquainted with, and gave him a brief nod before heading towards the tent. Glorfindel returned it, understanding that now was not the time to speak with each other.

"Celeborn?" Aearion called after him. After gaining his attention, he asked, "If you can, will you bring Thranduil to the Commander's pavilion? Certain discussions cannot be delayed any further."

Celeborn signaled that he had heard before, once more, turning away. That would be no chore. After all, it certainly would not be a long walk; both the royal tent and the Commander's pavilion were located in the center of the camp to ensure the upmost security to the royal party and chain of command.

Entering the tent, the first person he spied was Elrond who appeared to be trying to comfort Thranduil, who in turn was leaning over in total defeat. But at the sight of Oropher's corpse beneath him, Celeborn felt his heart twist in his chest. He felt that natural buildup of mourning initiate and took a deep breath to control it. To see a being he had lived out millennia with in Doriath fallen, to see such an exuberant life, which he had come to greatly respect second to only a few others, gone was incredibly painful. There was no other word for it. It was purely painful.

"Celeborn."

The Sinda's attention was dragged back to the present and he saw that Elrond had stood from his position on the ground and was watching him expectantly. Celeborn closed his eyes briefly, fighting to rein in the desire to let his sorrow overcome him. He would have to do that later. Not now; someone was in need of far more help than he.

Opening his eyes, he rested his hand on Elrond's shoulder. "It does me a world of good to see you alive, Elrond."

Elrond slowly nodded. "Likewise, Celeborn. Until Amroth had informed us, I had begun to doubt your survival."

Celeborn looked down to Thranduil, who appeared to not even mark his presence, and his gaze grew worried. Looking back at Elrond, and catching the despondency in his eyes, he mouthed the words, "Let me."

Elrond nodded and, with one last look at Thranduil, he quietly exited the tent as Celeborn took up Elrond's prior position on the ground. At the foot of the cot were a pile of supplies and a stack of blankets. Grabbing the top one and gently unfolding it, he waited a few moments for Thranduil to give some sort of acknowledgement of his presence, but none came. Leaning forward to try and connect with his gaze, which was once again riveted on his father's body, he was alarmed, but not surprised, to see how heavy the anguish was in his eyes.

"Thranduil?" he spoke softly with a hint of hesitance. When there was no response, Celeborn gently shook him out of the daze he had fallen in. "Thranduil, penneth, I want you to listen to me."

Thranduil slowly raised his gaze to Celeborn, a tormented pool swimming with confusion, denial, and unfeasible agony. There wasn't the slightest ounce of hope in his look. It was downright defeat and mourning.

At the questioning gaze, Celeborn held up the blanket in an unspoken message. After a moment, he knew Thranduil had understood, but whether he agreed or wanted it was another story. With impossibly slow movements and not drawing his eyes away from Thranduil's, Celeborn gently shook out the sheet and began covering Oropher's corpse. Thranduil did not move, simply appearing frozen as he watched, and Celeborn wondered if it was simply because he did not know how to react to seeing his father's body being covered. And when he finally got to the point of resting the sheet over his head, Celeborn felt that great sense of severance. But he did so, knowing that that was exactly what it was. And after a few moments, Thranduil had found the strength to speak again.

"If you are going to tell me to release my grief," he whispered, "save your breath. Elrond already tried."

Celeborn nodded slowly, knowing that he would have to tread carefully if he did not want Thranduil to end up shutting him out. He needed guidance right now, not sympathy. "I will not pretend that he is not right, for he is absolutely correct in that matter." Thranduil began to lower his gaze again, but Celeborn gently yet forcefully tilted up his chin. "What is it, penneth? I have known you for too long to know that there is something you are not telling us."

He knew he had struck home when seeing a flash of fear and a considerable amount of guilt light up his eyes, even though it was quickly hidden. "Tell me, Thranduil," he encouraged. "As a long standing friend of both you and your father, you know that you can trust me."

Thranduil shook his head again as the guilt, which had remained dormant just beneath the surface, rained down on him again and again. In a barely audible voice, he murmured, "He died because of me."

Celeborn furrowed his brow in downright bewilderment. "What are you talking about?" Though it had been blunt and a tad vague, he had heard how the Elvenking's death came about; an unfortunate confrontation with a Nazgûl.

Thranduil took another distressing breath. "My back was turned and he shoved me out of the way. If had not taken the time to shove me away, he would have been able to defend himself."

Celeborn shook his head. "You do not know that, Thranduil. No matter the situation, he may still have died."

"I know that," he said in a strained voice. The buildup of tears was nearly making it impossible to speak clearly. "But if he had not done so, there would have been a greater chance that he would have survived." Against his will, another tear fell as he rested his head in his hand. "By the Valar, why did he do such a foolish thing?" he whispered to himself.

"I know why he did it," Celeborn said, and Thranduil's head snapped up, surprise clearly in his eyes and just how sure he had sounded. "And it was not foolish of him." If possible, Thranduil looked even more confused. "Do you want me to explain why he did this?" After a moment's hesitation, Thranduil nodded and Celeborn took his hand in both of his, taking a deep breath before beginning.

"He did it," he began gently, putting as much conviction into the words as he could, "because he loves you. When he knew that he would be facing the Úlaire, he knew that the chances of him coming out alive were slim to none. Yes, you were not in any immediate danger, but he shoved you out of the way to make sure that that would remain so. No matter which way you look at it, Thranduil, he would have still ended up being killed. But he knew that, in the end, the least he could do was to ensure that his son would live." Thranduil continued to look at him, his gaze impossibly sad as his eyes lined with tears again. Celeborn squeezed the hand he held.

"He gave his life for you," he continued. "You may think you are at fault for what he did, but he did that _willingly_. Listen to me, penneth; Oropher _knew_ that if he died at the hand of that creature, _you_ would be the next target." He shook his head slightly. "And you and I both know that Oropher would not have been able to accept that. He shoved you out of the way to give you a greater chance of survival, to give his guards a few more moments of time to get you out of there alive. You are his _son_, Thranduil. For all these millennia, nothing in this world has meant more to him and has been so close to his heart than you have. He was not even about to risk losing you to death, even if he died as well. He wanted you to live on. He is your parent and king just as you are his child and subject. If there was ever a way to save you, he took it."

Celeborn paused to give Thranduil a small respite. Despite how old the Sindarin noble was, the death of his father still tore at his heart as powerfully as it would at any age. Only in terms of time, the severance of that particular bond became more severe as time passed. And he knew this was difficult for Thranduil to hear. It was difficult even speaking it. Thranduil's body was tense and he continued to hold his breath and release it. His eyes had shut tightly again and Celeborn knew that he was only moments away from losing all the restraint he had held.

"There is another reason why he did that, Thranduil," he added softly. Though he knew that hearing what he was about to say would be painful, it had to be spoken. Though there was no reaction from his younger kinsman, he knew he was listening. "Though it may not have even entered his thoughts, they being focused on you, he was instinctively thinking of his people as well when he did that."

Thranduil opened his eyes and looked at him incredulously. He did not even have to vocalize his confusion.

"I know it sounds confusing," he said, "but I want you to put some thought on this. By seeing that you would live, he made sure that Greenwood the Great would still have a king. Had you died, the grief would have been too great for Oropher."

Immediately, Thranduil shook his head, knowing where this was going. "My father was strong," he said defiantly. "He would not have faded."

Celeborn gave a small nod of agreement. "You are right; he would not have faded _right away_. But as time passed, he would have. He would have kept going for his people, but through the passage of time his strength would gradually have faded without his knowing. The progress of his fading would have been both with and against his will, the desire to be with you and the desire to be with his people. It may have taken centuries, but in the end, he _would_ have faded. After your mother had died, you were all that he had left...You were his world." A few more tears came to the grieving Sinda's eyes that he could not refuse and did not even bother to wipe away as he looked down to the sheet covering his father's face.

"But also," Celeborn further added, plunging ahead even though he was aware of the torment his words were causing, "he knew that you would _not_ fade at his death. Yes, you would grieve, but he _knew_ that you would find the strength to continue on. He knew you would become a great king for your people and that their loyalty to you would be well deserved. And believe me when I say that he found peace in that when he died. Though it was quick, he died with peace in his heart from knowing that you would live. And in that, Thranduil," he said, taking hold of his other hand, "you can also find peace._ He is at peace_. And you will not forever be separated from him. Your father was a great and noble Elf; you will see him again."

Thranduil was now finally releasing his tears. He didn't bother to stop them and his body shook with them. His head once again bowed, Celeborn rested one of his hands on his back.

"You need to let go, Thranduil," he whispered. "I know you as your father did and I know that you will make a great king. Serve your people in his place and give them what he can no longer give; your courage, your strength, your wisdom and your dedication. You must now take his place and I know you will do him proud. He would not want you to spend the rest of your days wallowing in grief for him. He did not raise you to do that. We both know you will honor him and deep down, you know that you will not allow his death to have been in vain. But you need to take the first step. And that first step, penneth, is to say farewell."

After giving him a loose, comforting hug, he stood from his crouched position. "As insensitive as it may sound, we will all have time to grieve later. Take the time now to say farewell and, when you are ready, meet us in your Commander's pavilion. War is upon us and your people need their king." He gave a small sigh. "You are much loved, Thranduil. And your people believe in you just as much as they believed in him. Now, you must believe in yourself." With that, he quietly made his exit from the tent.

And Thranduil sat there, once again lying across his father's chest. It had all come about too fast that it still remained as a shock to his mind and to the minds of his people. But he knew Celeborn was right; that was why he had not spoken anything. Though internal torment had been deeply stirred at his spoken words, he knew that they were the truth. And the truth, he had learned, may sometimes be the most difficult to hear, just as the truth that his father was now gone from this world was more painful to accept than any shard of reality. And nothing he said would ever be able to change the fact that his father's death had torn him asunder and will continue to do so, to a certain degree, every single day until he next saw him. If it were only himself and himself alone, he would undeniably sink into his grief. And if it were only him, he knew he would probably never come out of this deep abyss of mourning.

But it was not just him. And it was _that_ fact he drew strength from. It was because of _that_ fact that he managed to regain a hold on his self-control. His heart was torn in two ways and a large part of it still wanted to follow his father, but the other part, along with his father's and his honorary love of the Silvan Elves, determined his resolve; his people still needed him. He was not the only Elf today who had lost a loved one and right now, the Silvan Elves needed a leader. To be a leader in this time would mean setting aside your own torment and taking up the responsibility of great distress. When his people had chosen him to be the heir to the Woodland throne, he had taken that position with the oath of always serving them. And the start of that would be to take up the mantle of leadership today, right now. Their king had gone and their new king must now come. Yes, he would grieve later and he would grieve for many years to come. But he would not abandon his people to fear and despair when they needed him the most. Not now and certainly not today. Oropher would not want that. Oropher would not expect such an act of abandonment from him. He would do his father proud and see that his death would not, in the slightest, have been in vain. With his own eyes, he would see the fall of Sauron and, from knowing his people so well, he knew that they would have it no differently. And Celeborn was right; he would see his father again. It was now only a matter of waiting. As torturous as it would be, he simply had to wait.

Sitting up straight once again, with trembling hands, Thranduil pealed back the sheet covering his father's head. Though the sight further rent his heart in two, he found the strength to hold back the tears. Leaning forward, he placed an ever soft kiss upon his brow, lingering there for only a moment, before slowly sitting back up. With a delicate touch, he held his cheek, dismayed, but finally accepting, of just how cold it felt.

"Navaer, Adar," he whispered. With gentle movements, he replaced the sheet to fully cover him up again and stood from the ground. Savoring one last look for the person he had known to be the greatest in his life, Thranduil made his way to the tent and walked out into the new dawn of the new day.

The flap of the tent fell behind him, plunging what light was illuminated on the sheet once more into darkness, for the day of Oropher's reign had set into an eternal night. He was gone.

**The End**

* * *

><p>fëafëar = soul (singular/plural)  
>"Navaer, Adar" = "Farewell, Father"<br>Hithaeglir = the Misty Mountains  
>Morannon = the Black Gate<br>Úlaire/Úlairi = the Nazgûl (singular/plural)  
>Lórinand = present day Lothlórien<p>

**A/N:** Even though this was more so a "here and now" story, I feel the need to say that, indeed, the Elves of Greenwood had regained their morale, and all because of Thranduil. Through him, they regained their confidence and they found the will to fight for the whole seven years of the siege. And Thranduil became even a greater king than his father, for Tolkien did say that Thranduil was the greatest king the Silvan Elves had ever known. I just decided not to include this because it would have strayed off from the focus of the story.

But anyhow, please review! I'd love to hear your thoughts and as stated before, I welcome all words. And even questions if you have them. :) But please do review. Thanks for reading and happy trails!


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